overhead, the faded and tattered banners hanging from the walls and a couple of rusted suits of armor. Welcome to tacky touristy Scotland. It would be so nice if these places invested in some real antiques and gave them some loving care. Though, on closer inspection, the chain mail looked genuinely ancient.
“Your room is on the second floor, Miss McLellan. Number two hundred and ten.”
She let her gaze following his pointing figure to a set of spiral stairs winding around a column of smooth gray stone.
Bloody hell. No lift.
Those stairs weren’t new, either. They’d been smoothed into grooves by centuries of feet. It really was a medieval castle. Had she somehow got her booking mixed up? Booked a millionaire’s retreat instead of a cheap B and B in the middle of nowhere? Places like this usually cost an arm and a leg. Her heart gave a lurch as she thought of the wee bit of room left on her Visa. Thank you, Alec, the rat. Men. She’d never trust another one as far as she could toss one with a caber strapped to his back. Tomorrow morning might well be embarrassing.
What choice did she have? Going back out in the fog was not an option.
“Right,” she said, shouldering both bags and trudging up and around and around in ever-decreasing circles until she hit a narrow landing and a door. Please let this be the second floor—otherwise she’d be tempted to throw herself off a turret.
Out of breath, sweat trickling in all sorts of unmentionable places, she opened the door labeled two-ten beneath a low Gothic arch and stumbled down a step into her chamber. She dumped her bags and glanced around a room with a ten-foot ceiling and windows at knee level set in walls two feet thick. Then there was the four-poster bed. A four-poster bed with the drapes pulled closed.
Hiding what? She whipped back the green damask and sighed. Thank God. A sprung mattress. Not your twelfth-century straw-padded horror for that authentic experience. And the pillows looked blissfully soft. And sheets of pale lemon percale with a count of at least eight-hundred. She gave them a pat.
Perfect, even if one night did leave her skint for a month or two.
The narrow room stretched for forty feet, with two windows overlooking the courtyard. Between them hung a landscape. “The view from these windows on a summer’s day circa 1715” the caption beneath proclaimed. Smoky hills and a loch, beyond the turreted walls. Not a person or a black house in sight. Romantic and sanitized Scotland. Nothing like Grannie’s stories. She shrugged and continued her exploration.
At one end, some kind soul had set an antique-looking sofa and a table along with the makings for tea bedside an armoire. At the other, another arch revealed three stone steps winding up to a door. Please let them arrive at en suite plumbing. She didn’t fancy trotting down the corridor with her lally-bag, toothbrush and towel in hand. She trotted over to investigate. The steps did indeed end up in a bathroom—shower, bath, bidet and a black-and-white-tiled floor expansive enough for a ball. Lovely. She’d survive the night. And be on the road in the morning to find a place she could afford.
Although, a few days might be nice in the back-of-beyond, in a castle... Quite romantic. If she wasn’t alone.
Duh. Alone was the story of her life, since she kicked Alec the Snake out of her bed and her apartment. And she was better off, too. She should just enjoy this unexpected little jaunt into luxury and pay up and look big in the morning.
The phone on the desk rang. She leaped sky-high. Well, not quite. Five-inch heels didn’t allow for sky-high. It was her heart doing the jumping. She picked up the receiver of an old phone with a dial. “Hello?”
“Given the late hour, Miss McLellan, you’ll be wanting your supper in your room.” The soft voice proclaimed the answer to a question she hadn’t asked. Why not? At least she wouldn’t have to mix and mingle and be polite to a bunch of starstruck tourists, if any had been lucky enough to stumble on this place. Stumble? They’d have had to fight the mist to find their way here.
She glanced at her watch. Almost ten. She hadn’t realized how late it was, or how long she’d been driving. “What’s on the menu?” she asked.
“There’s haggis, and deer and rabbit—”
“Whoa!” And yuck. “I’ll have fish—trout if you have it—vegetables, no starch and a half bottle of chardonnay. Is that possible at this hour?” She crossed her fingers behind her back.
“Yes, Miss McLellan. It is, with pleasure. It will be with you in half an hour.”
“Thank you.” She dropped the receiver into its cradle and kicked off her shoes. She wiggled her toes to restore some feeling. She loved those damned shoes, but not after five hours of working accelerator, brake and clutch.
Half an hour would give her time for a shower. After dinner a bit of news on the TV and a good night’s sleep would set her up for another drive in the morning. She glanced around and frowned. Odd? No TV. She poked in the cupboard in the desk and opened the armoire, which looked like an original antique, but didn’t find a television or even a radio in disguise. Instead she found a book on the history of the castle next to the teapot.
Well, she’d hoped to learn something about the district while she was here. Perhaps this would help.
First thing in the morning, she’d speak to the hotel’s manager, apologize for the misunderstanding and be on her way right after breakfast.
The shower turned out to be a wonderful gush of hot water, instead of the halfhearted trickle she’d expected and she’d eaten her dinner sitting on the bed in her pajamas. After half an hour of the history of Glencovie Castle, she could barely keep her eyes open. She flipped off the light and drew the bed curtains closed. Perfect darkness. Ah, she really was sleepy. All that driving....
* * *
Moirag’s eyes shot open. Her heart was pounding pneumatic-drill style. She felt nauseous, the way she’d felt as a kid when someone whirled you round and round before you pinned the tail on the donkey. Only, she never made it that far. To her it always felt as if she’d been sucked down the drain with the water from a bathtub. She recalled having the same feeling when Granny had shown her that image of a castle in the water. Why was she having it now, in bed? She must have been dreaming. She waited for the horrible feeling to subside.
God, it was dark in here. Where the hell was here? Right. Road trip. Castle. Bed curtains. She must have been mad to pull them closed against the draft from the open window. And what was she doing dreaming about being spun in circles?
A crash and a curse. Heart racing she sat bolt upright. It wasn’t a dream that had woken her. Was it someone in a neighboring room? She cracked the drapes an inch. A shadow against one of the windows cut off the searchlight-like moonbeams. A shadow that hadn’t been there when she’d turned out the light. She remained perfectly still, listening.
The shadow was breathing hard. Definitely male. There was a man in her room. A burglar? He must have scaled the walls and decided her open window was the perfect way in. She should phone Reception. Blast. The phone was on the desk at the other end of the room. The heavy-breathing shadow collapsed on the sofa cursing softly.
Impressive. She hadn’t heard anyone swear that fluently in Gaelic since she left the Outer Hebrides. She fumbled around on the bedside table, feeling for the lamp, or something good for hitting an intruder over the head. Dammit. She should have asked for her computer to be locked in a night safe. Stupid. So very stupid. And lazy. And introverted.
